


Tumblr Prompt Fills

by navigatorsghost



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Angst, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Kink, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, Gen, Illustrations, Implied S&M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mirror Universe, Sentient Spaceship, Transformers as Humans, auraplay, established crossfaction relationship, truce'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatorsghost/pseuds/navigatorsghost
Summary: Prompt fills and flashfics from my Unicronian RP/ooc blog, of-fire-and-light on tumblr. All Unicronian-centric, various pairings, ratings, AUs, etc may feature. Individual chapters will be marked for any major content warnings. Chapters 5 and 9 have illustrations, all art is sfw.





	1. Meltdown [Scourge, G1 canon]

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Scourge: Describe a thought or dream that would cause them to have a mental meltdown." "Describe" turned into "flashfic". [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/173778110682/for-galvatron-for-cyclonus-for-scourge)

"Get out of my sight, Scourge!"

He's looking straight up the barrel of the great cannon, into the roiling star-heart glow of the plasma coils deep inside, but even that's still not as spark-quenchingly terrifying as the carmine blaze of Galvatron's optics backing it up. The warlord's face is set, a mask of rage and loathing; the muzzle of the cannon doesn't tremble by so much as a micrometre as he points it right between Scourge's optics, and Scourge cringes. "Galvatron...?" He hates himself for how pathetic he sounds, but he'd far rather be pathetic than-

-and the plasma coils whine in menace as the corners of Galvatron's mouth turn down even further, and Scourge realises almost too late that Galvatron isn't even going to give him the grace of a second warning. He scrambles backwards, trying to run without either turning his back on the cannon or tripping over his own feet. His gaze briefly lights on Cyclonus, standing where he belongs at Galvatron's side... and Cyclonus turns away.

But not before Scourge sees the look of cold contempt on his best friend's face. He backs up, past the stares of the rest of the army, past the scattered remains of deactivated Sweeps - and isn't _that_ like seeing his own funeral six times over - and out of the doorway of Galvatron's throne room. He transforms, takes off, and flees into the darkness, alone, outcast, lost...

*

...Scourge startles out of recharge and for a horrifying moment he thinks he's still alone, somewhere in the depths of space, exiled and forsaken. A choked sound of panic escapes his vocaliser, and it's only the rattle of his wings against the recharge floor beneath him, as he starts shaking, that lets him realise he's not somewhere lost in the void, he's aboard the _Dis_ and safe-

"Scourge?" And Cyclonus is beside him, half-awake and startled, but _there_. "What's the matter with you?" There's mild exasperation in his tone but nothing worse, and that's practically affection by their standards. _Normal._ Nothing to be worried about.

Scourge desperately tries not to break down, fights off the urge to magnetise himself to his best friend's hull and not let go. "Bad dream," he mutters, deliberately muffling his voice so that Cyclonus won't hear how badly it's faltering. "Sorry."

"Hmh." Cyclonus doesn't make any further comment, just shifts and lets his hand settle on Scourge's back between his wings, lying close enough to him that their EM auras overlap and their plating clinks lightly together. Scourge ducks his head down, shutters his optics and tries to stop trembling.

He thinks it might take him a while.


	2. Rules [Scourge, metal band AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Rules, Scourge, metal band AU". Anon knows me too well. I wasn’t sure where to take this at first, but then all the years I spent writing in metal fandom kicked me in the head and so this came out as an always-been-human AU with nameswaps and pretty much all of the serial numbers filed off. (For anyone who doesn’t know from extreme metal, the band they’re covering in this is Children of Bodom.) [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/174972587442/ballad-galvatron-viking-au-bitter-cyclonus)

They'd worked out the rules when they first decided they were a band: three teenage boys in the concrete basement of a hole-in-the-wall metal club in Szeged, comparing shirts and scars and favourite songs. Realising that between them, they overlapped enough to make it work. But, because Miklós said he wouldn't be in a band with anyone who didn't want it as bad as he did, they'd had to agree on the rules.

_Rule one: the band comes first. Before girls, booze, college, work. Even your family._

Attila had dropped out of college, couldn't get girls to save his life and his only day job was washing dishes, so that one, big deal as far as he was concerned. Being the drummer in Voidborn was the only thing he was doing with his life that might ever be important anyway.

_Rule two: if you see a chance to do something for the band, you do it, but you don't commit us to anything unless all of us agree._

That one was fine too. Attila carried flyers and demo tapes in his jacket and handed them to people whenever he got chance. He wrote down venue phone numbers to call up for gigs and told anyone who asked that he played in a band. If anything more complex than that came up, he just yelled for Szílard, who was way better than him at being organised anyway. That was a bassist thing, though. Everyone knew the bassist was always the guy holding the band together.

_Rule three: don't keep secrets if the others need to know, but don't fucking get in each other's business._

That one worried him sometimes. It worried him on the nights when Miklós wouldn't take his jacket off, when the other boy turned up to rehearsal with his jaw set and his eyes blazing, and snapped viciously if anyone asked him what was wrong. It worried him when they covered _Towards Dead End_ and Miklós threw himself into it snarling and spitting fire like he and Alexi Laiho were on too much of the same wavelength. " _You can hurt me - but you can't possess me-!_ "

He had a feeling Szílard knew more than he did - Miklós talked to their bassist more than he did to Attila, and sometimes those conversations were quiet and urgent in dark corners and there were times he'd swear he'd heard Miklós crying. But the rules meant he couldn't ask, so he just stayed at the back, kept the beat and did what he was supposed to do. It was all he'd got to give, but it was all the other two asked of him anyway.

And maybe one day if they stuck at this, they'd all get out of this fucking city together and it would all be okay in the end.


	3. Wishing [Galvatron-Cyclonus-Scourge, Crystal Mirrors AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Crystal Mirrors AU, wishing, all three". Crystal Mirrors is a Shattered-Glass-type AU in which the Autobots are the villains, the Decepticons are the heroes and Unicron is basically a giant spacefaring hippie. Hot Rod, a mostly-innocent young Autobot intended for a horrible fate by his creator Optimus Prime, escaped from his faction and got himself adopted by the Decepticons. That's... probably all you need to know for this? [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/175039997542/for-the-ficprompts-meme-crystal-mirrors-au)

Hot Rod lay back on the slope of an ancient rooftop, and looked wistfully up at the stars.

_I miss you._

It wasn't that the ex-Cybertronian refugees' new home was a _bad_ place. Charr was old and dark and full of mysteries but it wasn't terrifying the way Cybertron's depths had been, and the lanterns hanging in the ancient ruined streets and the warm glow of windows in the buildings they'd started to restore already made it feel like home. **I LOVED THIS WORLD ONCE,** he remembered Unicron saying when he'd brought them here, the giant planetformer's voice soft and sad. **IT WAS FULL OF LIFE AND LIGHT, LONG AGO. PERHAPS YOUR PEOPLE CAN MAKE IT SO AGAIN.**

And Hot Rod had felt a pang of sorrow for that lost race and the ancient demigod who was probably the only creature in the universe who remembered them, and he'd been as quick as anyone to promise, _we'll try_. And they were doing well, and Charr was becoming _home_ to all of them, and it wasn't like he wasn't _happy_.

But he missed Galvatron and the others. The Herald and his wingmates had left Charr with their creator, off to explore whatever new wonders awaited them in the wide galaxy. Hot Rod understood, they were wanderers by sparkright and they couldn't stay forever… _but he was allowed to miss them slagitall_. He almost wished, sometimes, that he'd asked to go with them.

Overhead, something plunged across the firmament in a long-tailed streak of silver. Hot Rod blinked up at it, distracted from his thoughts. A shooting star… You got a wish for a shooting star.

_I wish you'd come back._

The meteorite broke up somewhere at the top of the atmosphere, and he watched the largest piece shoot out of sight while three smaller ones scattered downwards, plunging bright and fast, burning away in Charr's thin dry air. They almost seemed to be falling right towards him, accompanied by a low, thrumming whine of sound that shivered the sky…

…wait. Meteorites didn't have _thrusters_.

He scrambled upright on the rooftop as the three of them dropped out of the starlit dark, re-entry fire streaming over their heavyweight spacer armour, the bright colours beneath shining as though they'd come fresh from Unicron's forges that very moment. " _Galvatron!_ Cyc, Scourge! Down here!"

Galvatron, already in root mode, looked down and waved as he braked himself on his antigravs, dropping to the rooftop with barely a shock of impact. The other two transformed and came down a pace behind, all three of them looking whole and well and like _everything was fine_ and they were happy to see him-!

"Hot Rod!" Galvatron's outstretched hands caught both of his, pulling him close as Galvatron smiled down at him in greeting and keen delight. "What are you doing up here?"

"Stargazing," Hot Rod said happily, trying not to cling. "That was the _Dis_ coming in, wasn't it? I thought it was a shooting star." He grinned sheepishly. "I made a wish and everything."

Galvatron laughed and gathered Hot Rod tightly into his arms, pressing him against slowly cooling cream-and-golden metal, bending his head to nuzzle the forepeak of Hot Rod's helm. "What did you wish for?" he asked teasingly as Cyclonus and Scourge closed in around the two of them to either side, both reaching for Hot Rod in turn.

Plausible deniability fully assured now that he could claim all three of them had started it, Hot Rod let himself melt against Galvatron and snuggled up shamelessly. "Doesn't matter," he said, voice muffled against the Herald's broad chestplate. "I already got it."


	4. Speech [Galvatron, G1 canon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Galvatron, giving a speech before a battle". I had a lot of fun with this. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/175860421782/for-the-battle-meme-3-13-andor-16-galvatron)

Cyclonus wished he hadn't just recalibrated his optical sensors. He now had to face the fact that all his visual systems were, indeed, functioning perfectly. Which meant that there really were that many Sharkticons.

They filled the vast, rust-blighted plain from horizon to horizon: a roiling, rattling, grinding sea of gaping maws and flailing claws and hideous staring eyes. The Quintessons must have opened up every pit and cage and vault on this entire planet. Beside him, Cyclonus was aware of the clicking clatter of armour as Scourge's wings shivered against his frame. The tracker was so afraid he was actually shaking, and Cyclonus almost couldn't blame him.

 _Almost._ They were still supposed to be setting an example to the troops. He lifted his head, straightened his back, and tried to do it for both of them-

" _Decepticons!_ "

-hearing Galvatron's voice thunder above the din of the Sharkticon horde made it easier. He turned to his lord, watching Galvatron where he stood poised on the ruined wall of the former fortress, feeling his spark lift even now at the glorious sight Galvatron presented with his armour shining bright and his great cannon raised to catch the sun in a blaze of gold. Maybe this wasn't hopeless after all...

Galvatron pointed down at the outrageous, impossible host of Sharkticons. "You see that? Do you know what that means?!"

"We're all going to die!" someone yelled from the back of the assembled Decepticons. The words were followed by a crash as the speaker's nearest comrades hastily sat on them.

But Galvatron only laughed, his voice ringing out joyfully. "It means the Quintessons are terrified of us! That's their entire army, and _that's what they think it's going to take just to stop us!_ "

A ripple of whispers through the Decepticons. "He's crazy." "He's delusional." "...hey, he's _right._ "

Cyclonus bit his lip on a grin. Galvatron continued. "So we are going to prove them wrong! That _still_ isn't enough Sharkticons to stop us!"

That actually got a cheer, mostly led, Cyclonus noted, by the Stunticons. Not entirely surprising. Sadly, it also resulted in Astrotrain - coward! - yelling out "You want us to fight all of them?!"

Galvatron's cannon swung threateningly in the triple-changer's direction. "I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't do myself!"

"...true..." If there was one thing everyone knew, it was that Galvatron would never call for a charge if he wasn't going to lead it. And there were a few more scattered cheers.

"Any more objections?!" Galvatron's voice had slid warningly up in pitch, edged with the familiar strain that meant he wasn't going to stand for much more nonsense from his own troops or the galaxy in general. Cyclonus tensed, just in case-

"But there's thousands of them!"

"Well, good news, that means even you can't miss! _Decepticons, attack!_ "

Perfect, perfect timing. The Decepticons were _laughing_ as they launched themselves into the air, Galvatron faster than any of them as he vaulted aloft on his thrusters, took aim and fired a wide-dispersion blast that demolished about thirty Sharkticons in a single hit. Cyclonus threw himself after his lord, transforming and heading down into the maelstrom of battle with single-minded fury now the order had been given. _Laser cannons, incendiaries, give them fire, give them hell!_

...Galvatron hadn't even been wrong, he realised with a blaze of pride as he swept above the horde of enemies. The Sharkticons did look flat-out terrified.


	5. Tales of Glory [Galvatron, Viking AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Galvatron, ballad, Viking AU". Warning: while I love the Viking Age I am not professionally qualified in it even slightly and therefore this will probably make your head hurt if you are, especially my invented names and bynames. File this under Fantasy Fake Old Norse to save yourself a headache, seriously. Always-been-human AU, serial numbers filed down a bit but not wholly removed, maaaaybe Galvatron/Rodimus if you squint. Special thanks to [gemma_inkyboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots) for the loan of her OC Keeper, who appears here as Gætir the skald. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/176319241167/okay-so-i-owed-this-anon-from-ages-ago-two-more)

Lo, then, let me tell you of Jarl Hroði Eldrauð, of whom it is told that he slew the Jotun Ulfginnung with the aid of the outlaw Jarl Galdinn Geas-Breaker, and for this deed was raised to the seat of his ancestors in the great hall of Vinstaðr. Of Jarl Hroði they say that he was tall and fair withal and his hair was bright as fire, whereby he was known as Hroði Flame-Red. A mighty warrior and a generous ruler was he, and though young in years he was wise in counsel, for upon his breast he wore a great white weirdstone that granted him all the wisdom of his forefathers. Such was Jarl Hroði, the great lord and hero of men! Red as his bright hair burned the hearth-fires in the great hall of Vinstaðr, and Jarl Hroði's thanes and his warriors and shieldmaidens sat upon the long benches and drank his mead and feasted at his pleasure.

On the night of which I tell you, Jarl Hroði and his folk were awake late into the dark hours, and the mead-horn went around and around and the heads of the warriors went around too, for they say of Jarl Hroði that he kept good mead. And as the fires sank low and the night waxed old, the warriors in their drunkenness called for the same tale as always; and they shouted for the _drápa_ of Jarl Hroði and how he slew the Jotun Ulfginnung, devourer of beasts and men.

Then there stood forth Gætir, the skald of Vinstaðr, and he sat him on the stool nigh to Jarl Hroði's feet with his harp in his hand, and thus he began. And all the hall was hushed as he spoke of the coming of Ulfginnung, and the fall of Jarl Hroði's father and the great battles that were fought with the warhost of the dreaded Jarl Galdinn, the mighty warlord whom Ulfginnung bound with a dark geas to serve as his thrall. On he spoke, and the notes of his harp took wing among the rafters like the sparks that flew from the fires, and all listened in wonder even though they knew the tale by heart. Jarl Hroði sat with his chin in his hand and a half-smile on his lips, and if he knew aught different from Gætir's telling, he spake it not.

Then came a clamour from without, and a thrall came hastening to Jarl Hroði's feet. He bowed deeply for interrupting the telling of the great _drápa_ , but his news would not wait: another jarl and his retinue were outside the gates of Vinstaðr, and they asked shelter for the night of Jarl Hroði.

"Who is he, then, that comes so late?" asked Jarl Hroði, as well he might.

"My Jarl," said the thrall, and his face was as white as that of Máni and he sweated like a wheel of cheese, "it is the Wolf! It is Jarl Galdinn and his oathsworn men who stand without!"

At that a great murmur went through the hall, and some would fain have called for their swords, but Jarl Hroði, wise and generous, raised his hand. "They ask for shelter, not for battle? Then bring them in!"

And he called for more mead, and for the cold and wet of the night he gave command for the fires to be built up once again. And thus did he welcome his old enemy and rival, Jarl Galdinn Geas-Breaker, called the Wolf Jarl, the Mad Jarl, berserker and outlaw of the realm; ruler of the wastelands on the border of Múspellsheimr, where the earth spits out fire and the ground is black and sharp as a field of swords.

What then shall I tell you of Jarl Galdinn? Tall he was and broad through the breast as a great bear, his hair as black as the raven’s wing and his eyes bright and fey. His wargear was scarred with the bite of a hundred blades, and at his side hung the great hammer _World-Breaker_ , which spat out thunder and lightning in battle as it had been forge-brother to Mjollnir itself. No hand save Jarl Galdinn's could wield that mighty weapon, and his foes fell before it like the grain before the scythe. As his foot touched the step of the threshold the white weirdstone upon Jarl Hroði's breast flashed with light, and a murmur ran through the throng in the hall; but Jarl Hroði only laughed, and rose to his feet with his hands offered in greeting.

All made way for Jarl Galdinn as he strode up the hall, and they watched as he clasped Jarl Hroði's hands and these two who had been such bitter foes now embraced like kinsmen. To Jarl Galdinn then did Jarl Hroði grant the guest-seat across from his own, and called for places to be made for the Wolf Jarl's warriors on the long benches below. Grim of mien and strange of seeming were the outlaws who rode with their Jarl, but they took their seats with courtesy enough and no hand was raised on either side.

And Jarl Hroði himself took the great drinking-horn and passed it brimming across the table to Jarl Galdinn; and lo, he received it back empty, for the Wolf Jarl had ridden far that night and it was said of him that he drank as well as he fought. But Jarl Hroði took no insult at this, only called for the horn to be filled again, for there was mead still in the cauldron in abundance.

Once the guests were seated, some there present called for the skald to pick up his tale, and Jarl Galdinn turned to Jarl Hroði. "What tale were you hearing, then?" he asked.

And some swore that in the firelight they marked a blush on Jarl Hroði's cheek. "My skald has a _drápa_ of the fall of Ulfginnung," he said, and did not say that it was rightly named _Eldrauðsdrápa_. "He was in the middle of it when you came in."

"Is that so!" Jarl Galdinn's eyes gleamed. "Then bid him start over, I'd fain hear the whole thing!"

And again there was murmuring through the hall, for few had thought Jarl Galdinn would wish to hear that tale. But Gætir only looked at his liege and bowed, and commenced once more.

And if as he went he changed a stanza or two to flatter Jarl Galdinn, then none in the hall made remark upon it. Least of all, indeed, Jarl Hroði.

***

Update: now with illustration, courtesy of [raisedbymoogles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles)! Thank you!

[](https://imgur.com/9cUTNBI)


	6. Grab the Wheel [Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, G1 canon, truce'verse]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Galvatron, while driving or in/around a car". So here we have Galvatron and Rodimus Prime, captured by unspecified enemies. Galvatron's been turned human. Rodimus is stuck in his altmode. Sometimes you just have to take the opportunity when you've got it. (Slash, established relationship, SFW.) [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/177107759867/p-while-driving-or-inaround-a-car-galvatron)

The massive hangar-workshop was burning around Galvatron; but he'd never faltered for fire in his life, and being stuck in a void-cursed organic, _human_ body wasn't going to make him change his habits. And certainly not when something he _very_ badly needed to retrieve was still in this room and he had to get to it. He ran, dodging burning equipment and the showers of foam from the beleaguered sprinkler system, relying on speed and luck to get him safely to the flame-painted RV parked on the far side of the space. A huge length of the ventilation ducting crashed down only metres behind his heels, and there were screams from some of the surviving humans; Galvatron didn't bother to look around to see what their fates had been. He was too busy grabbing the door of the RV and yanking it open, flinging himself up into the driver's seat. " _Prime!_ Get us out of here!"

There was a brief crackle of static and then Rodimus Prime's voice, sounding slightly tinny filtered through his altmode's vocal adaptor. "Hate to tell you, Galvatron, but I can't. They unhooked my motive connectors. I can't drive and I can't transform!"

What?! Despite what their captors had done to _him_ , Galvatron had thought they had left Rodimus unharmed. Discovering that they hadn't… well, he would have turned to go and destroy them right now, if he hadn't already torched their base and killed half of them anyway. "Then what-"

"My keys are in my ignition! _You_ get us out of here!"

Even in the midst of a setting that was collapsing in fire around them and where the necessity was more than clear, there was a _moment_ at that. To turn over control of your altmode to another was no small thing for any Cybertronian. For an Autobot Prime to hand control to his fated nemesis-

-for _Rodimus Prime_ to hand control to _Galvatron_ -

-just for a handful of astroseconds, both of them were struck breathless and speechless at what Rodimus had just offered, tension and desire arcing between them without a word needing to be said. And then Galvatron's hand gripped the wheel, his other hand went to the key where it jutted from Rodimus's steering column, and…

The Prime's engine screamed as Galvatron threw him into gear and catapulted them forward, heavy-duty tyres peeling strips of black across the concrete floor. " _Galvatron-!_ "

"Hold on, Prime, this might hurt!"

 _Doesn't it always_ warred in Rodimus's mind with _I don't mind that when it's you_ as a possible reply, but he didn't have time to say either of them before his prow hit the already buckled hangar doors that led to the outside. The doors should have withstood the impact, but they were already weakened and the force exerted by a Cybertronian engine combined with the strength of a Prime's armour was more than they had ever been built to resist. Metal screamed and sheared around them, and Galvatron let out a whoop of triumph as they shot through into the open air-

-and both realised far too late that the hangar was built into the side of a mountain and there was only a minimal apron of tarmac in front of it for vehicles to manoeuvre. Rodimus Prime's life flashed before his optics. "Aaaaaa-!"

" _Voiddammit!_ " Galvatron snapped the wheel over and did something with his feet and the stickshift that Rodimus wasn't sure he could have duplicated if he'd had control of his own body, and the Prime's tyres screeched again as he skidded rear-end-out, fishtailed, and somehow _didn't_ go straight through the guardrail at the apron's edge and onwards into oblivion. "You handle like a Junkion garbage scow, Prime!" Galvatron cursed him, but they were headed directly for the road and _not_ into the valley a thousand feet below and that was good enough.

"Blame the Matrix - _ow!_ " Rodimus yelled back, as they crashed through the red and white barrier at the base's security checkpoint. "I didn't ask for this altmode!"

"I knew there was a good reason to rip that thing out of you!" Galvatron retorted without really thinking about it, and felt as much as heard Rodimus gasp as that thought hit home somewhere that there really shouldn't have been time for under such demanding circumstances. "…maybe next time," the Herald added with a wicked grin, even as he concentrated on throwing Rodimus headlong down the switchback road in front of them.

"Shut up and drive, Galvatron- _nnnn!_ " Rodimus shuddered in ecstasy as his counterpart-nemesis-lover's grip tightened on his steering wheel and his engine screamed on redline as Galvatron downshifted _hard_ to catapult them around the next bend. " _Haaaah!_ "

"Shut up and _take it_ , Prime!"

By the time Galvatron pulled Rodimus over to the side of the road, they were thirty miles from the base and the handful of vehicles that had tried to pursue them were blazing wrecks in their wake - which was impressive given that one of them had been a helicopter. Rodimus hadn't quite realised what his altmode's onboard weaponry was capable of until Galvatron had gotten his hands on the controls. " _Hah!_ There. Lost them!" Galvatron's fist thumped the centre of the steering wheel in an instinctive gesture of triumph.

The resultant beep of Rodimus's horn startled a laugh out of Galvatron and a fit of helpless giggles out of the Prime, the latter mostly because a loud horn blast felt like the most accurate articulation of his current feelings he could possibly have managed. Galvatron punched him - lightly by Galvatron's standards, though that might just have been because of his current human form - on the dashboard instead. "Get a grip on yourself, Rodimus!"

"Hehehe… mmm… I thought you were doing that for me?" Rodimus gasped his way through the last of the giggles and sat trembling on his wheels as he finally started to realise how much his engine, gearbox, tyres, suspension, and pretty much _everything_ ached from Galvatron's driving. The sensation was entirely more delicious than it should have been. "Wow. Where did you learn to drive like that?!"

"Were you expecting any less of me?" Galvatron retorted, teasing.

"…no. Not in the slightest," Rodimus admitted. _I can see why Cyclonus misses this so much,_ he decided not to add out loud. "Um, Galvatron?"

"Yes?"

"I'm still stuck like this. Can you, uh, drive me back to Autobot City?"

Galvatron chuckled and ran a possessive hand over Rodimus's steering wheel. "Of course I can!"

He didn't sound even slightly like it was an imposition.


	7. Not Quite Stealing [Scourge/Cyclonus, G1 canon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "A stolen kiss - Scourge". Scourge/Cyclonus, **warnings** for bondage and implied (or rather, impending) S &M. Top!Scourge, bottom!Cyclonus, all consensual as usual. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/177146870372/and-im-back-with-another-prompt-fill-for-this)

The chains could have held a warship.

What they currently held was something close to one, at least in spirit. Cyclonus hung in mid-air, twelve metres off the ground under the glass dome of the ancient building they'd taken to thinking of as the Parliament Hall. The warrior wore shackles around his greaves, and cuffs on his vambraces just above the backswept blades of his stabilisers.The chains held him spread-eagle, his powerful, graceful frame stretched taut and displayed, a captive at the mercy of anyone who walked in the room...

...which was exactly why they were doing this on the other side of Charr from the Decepticon main base, in one of the few buildings that was still whole enough to have lockable doors. Scourge stood balanced on his antigravs, hanging in the air in front of Cyclonus, and examined his handiwork one more time. The heavyweight restraints were drawn tight enough to hold but not to harm; Cyclonus had twisted his wrists just enough to grip the lengths attached to his forearm cuffs, transferring some of the strain of his bodyweight to his own tensor cables instead of relying wholly on the chains. That one small thing changed the scene before him, Scourge thought. It made Cyclonus look like a willing participant instead of a helpless victim.

Which as far as it went was entirely true. Cyclonus _was_ willing, more than willing, he'd _asked_ Scourge for this and Scourge, with his neural nets tingling at the prospect, had eagerly agreed. But he was also still very definitely helpless at this point. While Scourge wouldn't put it past his wingmate to get out of those chains even now if he really wanted to, they wouldn't be an easy challenge. And as for anything less, like simply pulling away or blocking a touch, forget it. Cyclonus had given Scourge an almost frightening amount of power over him.

And he wasn't even reading as nervous, which was just unfair given that Scourge was probably considerably more on edge right now than he was. Cyclonus's head was slightly bowed, his optics dimmed and glowing ember-dark. Scourge could hear his cooling systems ticking over, the quiet steady draw of air through his intakes and vents unstrained and calm. His powerful flight engines were silent, only the low thrum of his root mode's core engine still resonating through his frame. His lockdowns were disengaged, but even without them his aura was a smooth haze of mercury-silver lying close over his plating, his fields still and undisturbed. No fear, no anxiety, no tension, just tranquility and trust.

Scourge almost never got to see his best friend like this, and it was oddly beautiful. He moved closer to Cyclonus, close enough that his own fields brushed the warrior's - less steady by far, he knew, flickering with anticipation and want and greed, and an edge of nervousness that found itself damped as Cyclonus's own confidence and calm echoed back to him.

 _If he doesn't doubt me, then he's probably right._ Cyclonus didn't tend to make mistakes about things like that, and Scourge let go of the anxiety, allowed something better to slip into his aura in its place. _Admiration, loyalty, respect, affection..._

Cyclonus smiled a little as he felt the shift in Scourge's energies, but didn't comment. Scourge reached out to him, brushing the backs of his fingers - no claws, not yet - against the metal of Cyclonus's chestplate just beside his collar, feeling his friend's polished armour sleek against his own and the shimmer of static as Cyclonus's energy fields were subtly disrupted by the touch. "Cyc?" he queried, barely above a whisper.

Cyclonus lifted his head very slightly, languid, his optics brightening fractionally. "Mmm?"

And _are you ready_ or _are you okay_ or _still sure you want to do this?_ would all have been unnecessary and verging on an insult, because both of them knew that Cyclonus could stop all of this with a word if he changed his mind, and Scourge trusted him enough not to second-guess him. "You owe me for this," was what he said instead, with a flicker of a grin.

"Hmh." If you knew Cyclonus as well as Scourge did, that noncommittal sound in the back of the warrior's vocaliser was a soft laugh. "What do you want?" he asked, tilting his head up a little further to look properly at Scourge.

"This," Scourge said, and leaned in and kissed him.

And Cyclonus didn't protest, only parted his lips and tilted his head to let their mouths lock together. The small sound of pleasure that escaped him was echoed by a wind-on-water shimmer through the mirror smoothness of his fields, the deep calm that had held him until now broken by a shiver of something hotter and keener: anticipation, readiness, _desire_. When they broke apart, the crimson glow of his optics was several shades darker and his smile had sharpened at the edges. The air between them sang with a tension that hadn't been there a moment before.

Scourge flicked the tip of his glossa over his lips - Cyclonus tasted like cold iron and frost and starlight and Scourge didn't want to lose even a trace of it. "That'll do," he murmured, with a crooked grin. He held Cyclonus's gaze, lifted his fingers, and slowly flexed his claws.

He saw the way Cyclonus's optics were drawn to the movement, the almost imperceptible arch of the warrior's back against the pull of the chains. "Go on, then," Cyclonus breathed.

Scourge couldn't hide his own shiver of anticipation as he reached out his hand.


	8. Home [Galvatron-Cyclonus-Scourge-Dis, G1 canon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a set of three prompts that somehow combined themselves into one fic idea: "On the edge of consciousness - Galvatron,  
> A moment’s respite - Scourge, Coming home - Cyclonus". OT3 fluff and mild philosophical musings. Cameo speaking role by the _Dis_ , for those who like sentient warships. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/177276629702/k-galvatron-c-scourge-u-cyclonus)

He races through the glittering void of deep space, and muses on how strange it feels when other species talk of _home_.

It's absurd the way most sapients attach such emotional and functional value to one set or another of galactic coordinates, how they will wail and cry and claw to protect even the most worthless of worlds if they consider it _theirs_. Cybertron is a strategic holding and of value if the Decepticons can ever get it, but its significance is purely pragmatic. Charr is the _de facto_ throneworld of the Decepticon Empire and they would fight to defend it for that alone, but he and Scourge picked it almost at random from a hundred worlds that would have served equally well. Earth… well, its natives seem to consider it the centre of the universe, but it means nothing to them.

How _could_ any of the galaxy's myriad sentience-encrusted balls of rock mean anything to them? They were forged in cold fire in the dark between the stars, a one-off, blasphemous act of creation by a force otherwise devoted only to destruction. They descend on the inhabited worlds of the galaxy like the hand of death itself, they take what they please and they leave flame and ash in their wake. The idea of having a _homeworld_ , somewhere they would sentimentally adhere themselves to even if there were better options out there, feels laughable.

The great twilight-steel bulk of the _Dis_ looms ahead of him in the depths of the dark, running lights shimmering down the monster ship's flanks, pale neons outlining the open throat of Flight Deck One as he arrows towards it. A twist and tilt of his jetmode to slip through the protective energy shields and he's inside, transforming and touching down in a couple of heavy strides that ring through the deckplates beneath his feet.

The _Dis'_ shadowy, subliminal awareness brushes against his, through the cryptic half-bond they share that's not quite radio and not quite telepathy but feels like a fusion of both. _~~welcome back, lieutenant~~_

//Thank you,// he sends back. //Anything to report?//

_~~transmitting. normal priority~~_

That's followed by a databurst transmission that he saves to read later, since "normal priority" means nothing has happened in his absence that the ship considers worthy of his immediate attention. //Where are Galvatron and Scourge?//

_~~resting~~_

He nods and turns to head towards the recharge room.

*

Most shipbuilders, as far as Cyclonus is aware, consider it normal for the senior command crew to have a room or suite of rooms each, to recharge in private and have space apart from each other. Unicron, for reasons none of them have ever chosen to question too closely, disagreed. The Unicronians' recharge room is a single space with a massive raised floor that contains an extended version of the maintenance circuits in a normal recharge berth, big enough that a dozen mechs could fit on it at need and certainly providing more than enough space for the three of them. They've piled it with cushioning blocks to support their sharp-edged frames and insulation blankets to trap heat they can ill afford to lose, and now it's a sort of elaborate nest that all three of them simply bury themselves in when it's their turn to recharge.

And the ceiling and one wall are made from heavyweight but crystal-clear armoured glass, giving anyone lying on the berth a panoramic view of the starlit void outside the _Dis'_ hull. When Cyclonus steps into the recharge room the main lights are deactivated, leaving only the small glow of lightwires in the walls to compete with the silvery sketch-light of deep space. His wingmates are curled together, tangled in the blankets and one another; Galvatron lying on his left side to keep his gun arm free, Scourge clinging to Galvatron's midsection with his head down against his commander's hip and one outstretched wing across Galvatron's legs.

He tries to keep his presence unobtrusive, but Galvatron's optics flicker on in a dim flare of carmine red. "Cyclonus."

"My lord." He goes to them, to Galvatron's outstretched hand, allowing himself to be caught by the arm and pulled onto the recharge floor. "I-"

"Later," Galvatron murmurs, and tugs him in. Cyclonus gasps at the sudden heat on his void-chilled armour, sinking gratefully into the almost painful luxury of Galvatron's overclocked energy fields and the plasma heat-glow that radiates through the Herald's plating. Supercooled metal creaks and tinks as it warms up too fast, frozen space gases sublimating off his frame in curls of vapour that disappear within moments, and Cyclonus dismisses the pain and the warnings in his visual display to press himself closer.

He gets a half-awake radio ping of acknowledgement and greeting from Scourge as he fits his own frame around his wingmate's, and then the weight of Galvatron's arm and cannon settles firmly across his side as he folds his wings back out of the way. Cyclonus lowers his head against his lord's shoulder and lets himself relax, soaking up the heat and the quiet and the darkness…

…perhaps this is what all those lesser sapients mean when they talk about _home_. If Cyclonus could apply that word to anything it's to this, his wingmates and their ship and the shining abyss of space above and below them, the brief, sweet sense of _rightness_ he feels at moments like this one.

He considers that thought for a moment, then tags it _postponed for review_ alongside the _Dis'_ watch report and offlines his optics. _Later._ He needs to recharge, and the weight of Galvatron's arm over his midsection is an order that brooks no dissent.

He is where he is, whatever he chooses to call it, and there's no reason right now for him to be anywhere else.


	9. Roll For It [Hot Rod/Galvatron/Cyclonus/Scourge, G1 canon, truce'verse]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [raisedbymoogles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/) and [Gemma_Inkyboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/) gave me a notebook full of doodles of my headcast for my birthday and I am so not over this. 'Boots drew Hot Rod DMing a game of Dungeons and Dragons for his boyfriends, and I had to write something to go with it, because context. G1 truce’verse, after Hot Rod managed to get rid of the Matrix and ran off to see the galaxy with Galvatron, Cyclonus and Scourge instead. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/177426961317/okay-so-raisedbymoogles-and-gemmainkyboots-gave)

[](https://imgur.com/4WCXnHM)

***

In and of itself, falling through a wormhole and ending up in the wrong dimension wouldn't have been so bad.

It was falling through a wormhole and ending up in the wrong dimension _without the Dis_ that had been a problem. Because while the _Dis_ and the Sweeps were perfectly capable of looking after each other until the Unicronians and Hot Rod could find a way home, it meant that while they were _here_ , they were stuck hitching rides on other people's ships for long-distance transport. And so far in this universe, they hadn't found anyone who had anything remotely as fast or powerful as the _Dis_.

Which meant that Hot Rod was now consigned for a standard month to the hold of a cargo ship with his three very bored and very very irritable war-machine boyfriends and nothing for any of them to do. They'd started with the obvious but even the four of them could only spend so much time having sex, and after Galvatron and Cyclonus accidentally left visible dents in one of the bulkheads as well as each other, they'd had to dial that back anyway. Besides, interfacing didn't do anything about the primary problem. Hot Rod had never truly understood before just how much the need for battle and violence was hardwired into the Unicronians' core directives. If they didn't have anything to fight they got restless and moody on some spark-deep level that nothing else could assuage, and seeing them stuck like this without even a simulation deck to play in made it painfully clear to Hot Rod just why, even back when he had still been Rodimus Prime, he would never have been able to persuade Galvatron to accept anything that could have been called _peace_ as opposed to just _truce_. Peace made the Unicronians as thoroughly miserable as war made most Autobots, and that was just how it was. It wouldn't be possible to change it without reprogramming them entirely, and… no. Even for the sake of saving the galaxy Hot Rod wasn't going to let that happen.

A week into the trip he'd turned out his pockets in search of inspiration before the three of them started taking out their tempers on either each other or him, and found, among other things, his Dungeons and Dragons supplies from when the Autobots on Earth had briefly embraced a craze for roleplaying. In desperation, he'd offered to run a game for the Unicronians. Even if it wasn't real combat, it might scratch the psychological itch to kill things enough to make the three of them feel better.

Rather to his surprise, even Galvatron had agreed. It had only taken a little tweaking to get the right balance: Hot Rod had opted for a classic dungeon-crawl setting that used the Monster Manual as a sort of bucket list and required minimal roleplaying talent, which was fine given that all three Unicronians were essentially playing themselves. The only brief hiccup had been discovering how complex he had to make the tactical options, because if he didn't give Galvatron enough problem-solving to do then the Herald's powerful battle computers didn't get enough of a workout, but they'd figured that out within a couple of sessions, and now it was going just fine-

"Roll for it."

There was a clatter of dice, and Galvatron cursed. "Twos?!"

-well, except when that happened. Hot Rod winced. Galvatron's bonuses to almost every roll he made were unholy high because that was only representative of reality, but even so, the dice still got him occasionally. "Yyyeah, sorry. That missed." He carefully didn't phrase it as " _you_ missed".

" _Rrrrgh!_ " Galvatron glared at the dice. "I've finally found something I despise more than incompetence!"

"My lord?" Cyclonus queried.

" _Randomly generated incompetence!_ "

Hot Rod clamped down on his vocaliser and desperately tried not to laugh.


	10. Worst Case Scenario [Galvatron, G1 canon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Galvatron: The muse is on the battlefield and they have to take a terrible decision." The canon provided the scenario in the form of _The Dweller in the Depths_ , I just filled in the POV. [Original post.](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/179594483812/finally-getting-around-to-an-outstanding-ficlet)

When the worst choice comes, he gets only fractions of a moment to decide.

The Dweller has already proven itself essentially unstoppable. The Autobots, the Sweeps, _Scourge!_... and now there's only the two of them left and the cursed thing is still coming. This might be the first time Galvatron has ever faced something that's truly as implacable as he is.

And that's why he has to make the choice he does. Because if the Dweller gets Galvatron, then even if Cyclonus escapes he can't take it down alone. If it gets Cyclonus, on the other hand... Galvatron is certain he still can. Cyclonus is powerful, yes, magnificently so; but Galvatron is the Herald of Unicron, he's the one with the plasma supercharge and the planetkiller cannon, and if the impossible needs doing then it's his place to do it. Cold, hard combat math, variables and projections racing like a storm through the massive battle computers that support his conscious processing - _he has no choice_.

It's still among the hardest things he's ever done. The desperation and fear in Cyclonus's voice as Galvatron turns away... well, the worst pain Galvatron can remember is having Unicron's claws in his head, but this comes in a very close second. He makes himself look away and _run_ , swearing vengeance, swearing restitution. The Dweller doesn't kill its victims outright, it _will_ be possible to save them because _Galvatron is going to make it possible,_ he is going to kill this thing and _get Cyclonus back_ \- and he's going to make this up to him, oh, _how_ he's going to make it up to him for having had to sacrifice him even as a temporary measure-!

Of course, in the event, the Autobots have to go and get in his way, and everything pans out in total disorder as usual when that happens. But at least their compulsive urge to save everyone and everything means that Galvatron still gets all of _his_ troops back too, including Cyclonus. And he does pull Cyclonus close, later when they get back to Charr and are safely alone together, and reward him lavishly - in their usual fashion - for his loyalty and trust. Cyclonus, of course, melts in his embrace and whispers gratitude and devotion back to him, willing and faithful as ever, and that's the end of the matter.

Galvatron never offers an apology, though, and Cyclonus never asks for one. That would have implied that either of them thought he made the wrong decision.


	11. And Count It No Loss [Galvatron/Cyclonus, G1 canon]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not for a prompt, just sometimes you can't write the fic you were trying to write because one of your muses is too horny to concentrate. So fine, this is what happened instead. Galvatron/Cyclonus flashfic, based around a favourite headcanon of mine: that while regular Cybertronians have built-in hardware specifically for pleasure/interfacing/getting overloads, the Unicronians don’t, because Unicron didn’t want his perfect weapons getting distracted by that sort of nonsense. Fortunately, where there’s a will, there’s usually a way. Original post [here](https://of-fire-and-light.tumblr.com/post/181821223872/tfw-you-cant-write-the-fic-you-were-trying-to).
> 
> And dedicated, hoping they see it, to the lovely anon who left me [this comment thread](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/201255563) on one of my favourite of my fics. Thank you again!

It will never, ever be just about pleasure.

Cyclonus is grateful, in the end, for how he was made. He sees the way that the lesser Cybertronians use their frames for empty indulgence, how they regard an overload as an end in itself and seem indiscriminate in how or where they get it. Their purpose-installed hardware makes it too easy, focuses their minds too much on a momentary physical release. They barely need to trust each other or even know each other to get what they want.

He and his triadmates are very different. They know each other's blueprints and secret desires alike, they _work_ to give each other pleasure and relief. They dip their fingers into each other's most vulnerable systems and bite down on fragile circuitry and open themselves to each other without shame or fear, and their pleasure is a shared reward and an act of trust.

And with Galvatron, his liegelord, that trust is absolute. He _knows_ that Galvatron wants to see him laid open in surrender, wants to claim utter dominion over him and reduce him to shattered and shameless bliss; and it is his honour and his ultimate reward to yield himself up to his lord's desire.

From day to day, he must be strong, he must be cold; he must needs hide everything he might feel, and show only a mask of discipline to the galaxy in general. Alone in the shadows with his lord, he casts all of that aside. Galvatron's touch draws shudders and cries of ecstasy from him and he makes no effort to suppress them, thrilling at the triumphant blaze in his lord's optics when he writhes beneath the grip of powerful hands and the fierce assault of razor-edged dentae. The pleasure is exquisite, the pain that so often accompanies it is intoxicating - and yet all of it would be meaningless from any other hands than Galvatron's, and _that_ is what makes the final release and surrender so precious to him. Defences laid open and firewalls down, as vulnerable as he can ever be, he offers himself body and spark to his lord; and that, not the pleasure itself, is his true reward.

It will always be worth it, always, for the way Galvatron watches him with heat and triumph in his optics, for the way his lord's armour-breaking grip tightens on him as though to keep him from ever hitting the ground no matter how hard he falls from that dizzy height of ecstasy. It will always be worth it for Galvatron's praise and teasing and the way he murmurs Cyclonus's name, for all the sweet words whispered in his audials - _yes, beautiful, mine_. Worth it for the way Galvatron holds him afterwards, almost thoughtlessly possessive, secure in his own power and Cyclonus's unfaltering devotion.

Worth it, for the ultimate bliss of knowing that he is _enough_ , and he is exactly where he belongs.

Cyclonus never mourns for what his creator withheld in payment for making him what he is. If anything, he rests content in the certainty that he got by far the best of the bargain.


End file.
